


Unsaid

by mezzo_cammin



Category: Dawson's Creek, Thoughtcrimes (2003)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-22
Updated: 2011-04-22
Packaged: 2017-10-18 11:54:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mezzo_cammin/pseuds/mezzo_cammin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times they didn't actually say I love you (but meant it) and one time they did</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unsaid

I.   
Brendan stares at his clean-shaven face in the bathroom mirror, tilting his chin to the left as he looks at the livid bruise on the side of his neck, placed almost low enough for his shirt collar to conceal. He tightens the navy blue polka dot tie and slides the knot snug against his throat. He shivers, remembering.

 

He walks through the bedroom, where Vincent lies sprawled on top of the sheets, yesterday's red silk tie still threaded through his fingers. Brendan swallows against the words that crowd his throat. He closes the door softly behind him, letting Vincent sleep.

*****

II.   
Vincent sighs and looks at his watch for the third time in the last five minutes. He's cutting it close. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel and stands on the brake as a taxi cuts in front of him. He hates rush-hour traffic, hates driving in the city, period. He will never understand why Brendan insists on using this particular dry cleaning service instead of the one that's two blocks from their apartment. Something about them knowing how he likes his shirts starched. Hell. At least there's an open-air market on the way home. Maybe he can pick up some fresh eggplant and garlic… Vincent glances at his watch again. Five minutes until closing. He circles the block twice more, and is finally forced to double park. He makes it to the door just as they're flipping the open sign over to closed and sweet-talks his way in. A few minutes later, Brendan's favorite suit is hanging, wrinkle-free, in the back seat, along with three starched-just-right shirts, and Vincent is pulling back into traffic. His cell phone rings.

"Hey," he says, and eases the car through two lanes of traffic so he can make his left turn at the light.

"Hey," Brendan answers. He sounds harried, and Vincent can hear sirens and shouting in the background.

"Listen, I need a favor. Would you -? Oh, shit. Never mind." Brendan has obviously just noticed the time. Vincent smirks.

"Would I what?" he prods.

"Nah, it's too late," Brendan exhales loudly. "I was going to ask if you'd mind picking my suit up at the cleaners today but I just realized they're closed already. No big deal."

"Bren-"

"Looks like I'm going to be tied up here for a while. Big break on the Michelson case."

"Brendan-"

"Sorry, man, I gotta go - don't wait up." Brendan hangs up and Vincent drives past the open-air market without stopping.

The next morning, with only vague memories of Brendan sliding into bed beside him hours before dawn, soft kiss on his shoulder, warm breath on his nape, Vincent wakes to find Brendan's side of the bed empty. On the pillow is a yellow post-it note with a scrawled, 'Thanks! Lunch today? Nooner? B.'

Vincent stares at the note for a long time, realizes he's grinning like a goof, and reaches for his cell phone.

*****

III.   
Vincent spends half the day studying and the other half in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, simmering the marinara sauce, layering the lasagna, dirtying every pot they own, and some he must have borrowed, Brendan thinks, eyeing the bright red colander suspiciously. The salad is crisp, the pasta delicious, and the wine has just the right bite to it. They're lingering over coffee and tiramisu, playing footsie, and flirting with intent when the phone rings. It's one of Vincent's study buddies. Brendan steers Vincent to his desk, places a cup of fresh-brewed coffee by his elbow, and tackles the dishes, alone.

*****

IV.   
The small, square jeweler's box is delivered to his desk along with the bouquet of fragrant red roses, amidst good-natured ribbing from his team. A matching bouquet is delivered to Freya's desk, and the laughter stops as quickly as it started. Brendan meets her confused look with a shrug and points to the card. It says, 'Happy Valentine's Day. Love, B&V'. Her smile lights up the room, and he returns her hug with equal fierceness. Later, alone in the men's room, he takes a deep breath before slowly opening the box. Inside is a tube of lipstick. His favorite shade.

*****

V.   
"Oh, God, Brendan, please, you have to, God, please, please, -" Vincent's voice breaks, and he chokes on the words. They're on the sidewalk and he is cradling Brendan's head in his lap. There's blood, everywhere, and Freya - Freya is on the phone, screaming for an ambulance. There's a crowd around them, and someone, some bystander, has caught the hit-and-run driver, dragged him out of the car. Vincent hears the sirens off in the distance, feels Brendan's pulse under his fingers, thready, but there, it's there. He's afraid, so afraid. "I love you," he whispers. "Please. I love you."


End file.
